Flowers in the Window || W2S

1

You'd always loved the park at night. One could argue that it wasn't safe for a girl like you to be wandering the streets alone after dark-and they'd certainly be right. However, there was just something incredibly romantic about the grass cushioning your body as you stared up at the white stars, looking for constellations and wondering if anything else could possibly be out there in that big black sky, waiting to be found.

Tonight, though, the wind was making her presence known, and you shivered under your thin jacket as you tried to find Orion's Belt. It should have been easy, just three bright stars close together. But the streetlights were blurring the dots too much, and you couldn't tell. So many stars.

One of your fondest childhood memories was making up stories for them. It was strange-and your mother had told you so-but you'd wholeheartedly believed that stars were souls, floating around the universe, looking for a new home. And even at that age, you fully understood that people need names. And backstories. And so you were more than happy to pass the times when sleep evaded you by looking for the brightest souls, and giving them the most colourful, vibrant, beautiful lives you could imagine in that moment.

You suppressed a sigh as your eyes found what appeared to be the North Star. It reminded you of your mother. For she had been the brightest, loveliest person you'd ever known. And now she was one of those lost souls in the sky, billowing through the darkness, perhaps wondering if she'd ever get to reunite with her daughter again. And with the increasing crime levels that the city was facing, you were slightly afraid that reunion would be sooner than you expected.

A moment was all it took, after all.

You sighed for real this time. You'd come out here to stargaze, to be happy-and here you were, thinking about your mother's death and how likely it was that you'd join her now. Brushing the grass off your back, you rose from your position on the ground, stretching your legs, and began to head home, keys jingling in your pocket as you walked.

The city was lovely at night too, you supposed. The lights were too bright, and you'd never stop wondering why some important white men decided that anybody needed their buildings to be so tall. But the winding streets were unusually quiet at this time, and the moonlight glinting off of the windows of the tallest buildings made quite the pretty picture. Even the air seemed to smell cleaner, with only one or two cars on the road.

You could see one of those cars now as you approached the bookstore that was conveniently located close to your house. It was black and shiny-definitely new and expensive. But the owner didn't look particularly rich-not like the billionaires you saw on billboards that were ostentatiously designed and dotted around the place. You worked for one of those billionaires. Well, your uncle did. But it was charity work-a humanitarian aid that helped out starving people across the planet. And you genuinely liked Marcus Carr, and he'd come to like you over the years. There weren't many good billionaires out there, but he was one of the few, and you were more than happy to have him take you under his wing. Mostly, you'd volunteered in the homeless shelter he'd established a few years ago-handing out food, talking to the people, teaching the kids to read. You'd stopped calling it volunteering when Marcus stole your bank details off of Uncle Bryce and began to pay you for your help. After that, it was a part time job.

While these thoughts had been drifting through your head-too tired for them to run-the car's owner had been joined by a friend. Another shiny car, this one red, and the man driving this barely looked a teenager. You knew it really wasn't any of your business, but you couldn't help but stare, hoping they didn't catch you. And it was a good thing they didn't, because you only understood the fancy cars when the teenager reached into his back seat and handed the other man a see-through crate of what appeared to be several plastic bags, filled with white powder.

Oh.

You decided to quicken your pace. It wasn't like you were the purest person on earth-you'd stolen a couple small items throughout your life, from sticky sweets as a child, to hair clips in beauty shops that had absolutely no business being fifteen pounds. But there was just something about drugs that scared you. All the assholes at your school raved about them constantly. And you'd never forget that one day-a guy you'd known since primary school, who you'd been civil to but never truly friends with, had started taking a lot of drugs during the summer before year 10. And one random day-one fateful day-he took a big group of his friends and beaten a year 9 kid into a near coma, because that kid had apparently looked at his girlfriend funny.

Something was wrong with the world. And it was times like these-times when children were being attacked and hospitalised, times when you were walking home alone in the dark-that you were extra grateful for the fact that your city just so happened to have its own personal superhero.

Spider-Man, they called him. For good reason-every picture you'd seen of him online or in the newspaper, he was scaling a wall, or swinging through the city attached to some strange kind of web, or standing heroic on top of the highest skyscrapers. He was the people's hero, too-he had no time for reporters, but if you'd been involved in an attack, or he'd just rescued you from the clutches of some supervillain, he would always, without fail, stop to make sure you were okay. You found it sweet, honestly. He wasn't just in it for the fame, or the thrill, or just because he had those powers. He genuinely cared.

Sometimes, when you were lying in bed, unable to sleep, you'd pull your window open and step out onto your little fire escape balcony. Observing how tranquil the world was in those moments always made you feel more comfortable-you would never have dreamed that a world shrouded in darkness could be so beautiful. And every now and again, whenever you decided to do that, you'd see him, swinging between the buildings, off to stop a bank robbery, or going home for dinner-wherever home was for him.

By the time you'd safely reached your apartment block and pushed the lift button, your body had decided that tonight would not be one of those nights. It was a school night, after all-and so was last night, so you'd been awake since six, and it was currently eleven. Your sleep schedule was a wreck anyways, but the exhaustion washing over you in that moment was too powerful to be ignored. It was okay though, because you'd been to the park, like you wanted, and you hadn't been attacked by drug dealers.

Which meant that tomorrow, you got to tell Margot and Wes all about it.